


The Kidnapping

by WayWardWonderer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Attacked, Bleeding, Gen, Hurt, Kidnapped, Prison, Rescue, Torture, Wounded, abducted, dying, imprisoned, injured, saved - Freeform, threatened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWonderer/pseuds/WayWardWonderer
Summary: Professor Moriarty has kidnapped Sherlock Holmes and now holds him as his prisoner. Dr. John Watson must find Holmes and rescue him from Moriarty's torture before his friend is killed by the vicious criminal genius's vengeful wrath, or succumbs to the devastating injuries.





	The Kidnapping

Dr. John Watson paced about the rooms of Baker Street with a righteous nervousness as he watched the rain pouring down over the streets through the foggy second floor windows. Fidgeting with his pipe, clumsily stuffing the tobacco and lighting it with a match that trembled in his restless hand the good doctor anxiously awaited for any news, any clue regarding the current whereabouts of his colleague and dearest friend Sherlock Holmes.

A horse drawn hanson raced down the street and came to a halt outside the flat as Watson watched from above. Inspector Lestrade hustled out of the carriage and pushed open the door, not waiting for Mrs. Hudson to answer his call, and raced up the seventeen steps to the closed door to the room where Sherlock and Watson conducted their business.

Lestrade pushed open the door slowly, his head clutched between his nervous fingers as he entered. "Hello, doctor." Cold rain water had soaked into his coat and was dripping from the fabric and creating a small puddle around his feet.

"Lestrade." Watson took his pipe from between his teeth and set it down on the small table next to his chair. "Any word on Holmes?"

"None." Lestrade admitted with a heavy heart. "The only sign of Mr. Holmes we've found was the scene of a scuffle in the park and his dropped tobacco tin with only a snuff of tobacco and two cigarettes inside." He held up the tin that had a small amount of mud dripping from it in his hand for Watson to see from across the room. "The trail has gone cold."

"What's being done now?"

"Doctor," Lestrade openly hesitated. The resignation in his voice was a palpable omen that set Watson's nerves on fire. "there is no trace of Mr. Holmes, nor hide nor hair of the deviants who abducted him."

"Blast it all, man! You have to do something!" Watson vehemently protested Lestrade's seeming admission of defeat. "You can't just stop searching! We know that Moriarty is responsible for this heinous act!"

"We know but we can't prove it!" Lestrade reminded Watson with a stern tone. "And until we can find the evidence connecting Moriarty to Holmes' disappearance we can't make a move against him."

Watson shook his head and stormed across the room toward Lestrade. Snatching his coat from the hook next to the door and ripping the tin of tobacco from Lestrade's hand Watson gave the inspector an embittered glare as he pulled the door open with a might huff.

"Doctor!" Lestrade called out as Watson rushed down the staircase and toward the front door of the flat. "Where on Earth are you going?"

"If you and Scotland Yard won't search for Holmes, then I will!" Watson shouted in response as he burst through the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

The dark city streets were drenched in rain. A thin fog covered the city with an eerie whiteness that masked every route, street and alleyway that snaked between the buildings. As the dancing flames in the lamps illuminated the fog with an ethereal glow Watson pulled his collar up to his ears and marched down the sidewalk toward the park where Sherlock Holmes had last been seen."

* * *

A throbbing ache in his head awoke Sherlock from a deep, restless sleep. Along with the pain in his head a searing pain in his wrists gnawed at him relentlessly. Each breath he took felt like his chest was being crushed under a burning weight. The sickly sweet metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and nose as it streamed from the corner of his mouth and down his nostrils. Strands of his dark hair hung down over his face and stuck to his face as sticky blood and cold sweat saturated strands of his hair; matting rogue strands of his to his forehead.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but only his right eye cooperated. The left eye was swollen and bruised completely shut. It was a struggle for Sherlock gain his bearings but once he regained full consciousness he recognized the significance of his dire situation.

Sealed away in a stone room ensure that the environment was as cold and silent as it was oppressive and intimidating. No windows lined the walls but a single metal door provided the only entrance and exit to the room.

The room was dim, a single candle burned atop of a small table in the center of the room illuminated Sherlock's body as he hung from the ceiling by cold metal chains shackled to his wrists. Restrained high above the ground the tips of Sherlock's shoes brushed against the stone floor of the room lightly as he swung back and forth against his will as the chains kept him bound against his will.

Laying atop the table next to the candle was Sherlock's battered coat, the pockets having been pulled outward by rummaging hands who took even the smallest possessions that were once held within.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, his one good eye struggling to focus on the chain attached the stone ceiling above. Pulling down against the chains Sherlock let out a defeated groan as he felt the pain in his wrists intensify while the chains themselves remained steadfast and tight.

"Struggle all you like." A menacing and familiar voice taunted Sherlock as a figure pushed open the only door of the mysterious room. "But you shan't be escaping from me. Not this time, detective."

"Moriarty." Sherlock nearly spat the name hoarsely. Swallowing the blood in his mouth he grimaced briefly at the taste as he watched his nemesis stroll arrogantly into the room and stand before him. "You've finally lost what was left of your sanity."

"Perhaps." Moriarty stated with a bold condescension. The arrogant professor slipped off his jacket before unfastening the cuffs of his shirt. "However, I believe it's your sanity that should come into question." Leaning uncomfortably close to his prisoner he let out an nasally sigh of hot breath in Sherlock's face as he rolled his long sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as a result. "A skilled detective with unparalleled deductive reasoning. And yet, you dare to walk about unarmed and alone while attempting to discredit my name." Waving a finger in Sherlock's face Moriarty flashed him an egotistical grin. "What a horrific lapse in judgement to fall so easily into my hands."

"Perhaps." Sherlock mimicked without the slightest qualm as he stared down Moriarty with his one opened eye. "Then again, it may have been you who had a lapse in judgement and will soon enough be placed in the hands of Scotland Yard."

"Doubtful. Your confidence in Scotland Yard has been greatly misplace. Those bumbling fools have already given up the search for you; their golden boy who locks away the most dangerous criminals that London has ever known." Moriarty hissed as he reached into his trouser pocket and revealed an immaculately sharpened straight razor. The flawless blade glistened in the light of the burning candle's flame as Moriarty pressed the blade uncomfortably close to Sherlock's throat and pressed against his flesh. A single bead of blood began to flow from beneath the blade and down Sherlock's neck "In due time your allies at Scotland Yard will find you. Unfortunately they will find you far too late, your body discovered one little piece at a time."

"It is not Scotland Yard where I place my faith." Sherlock replied in a curt manner as he titled his head back, raising chin higher into the air and away from the blade. "Make no mistake about that."

Moriarty began to laugh. Pulling the blade away from Sherlock's throat he rested it over Sherlock's white shirt above his heart. "You cannot possibly mean that blundering doctor friend of yours!"

"In fact, I do."

"And you dare to question my insanity?" Moriarty questioned as he pressed the blade firmly against Sherlock's chest. Starting from his left shoulder Moriarty dragged the blade across his chest toward his sternum; the white fabric of Sherlock's shirt tearing open and staining red with blood as the razor cut deeply into Sherlock's unprotected chest.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and bit his lower lip to keep himself from uttering even the slightest groan of discomfort simply to undermine Moriarty's pleasure of inflicting pain upon his person.

"Impressive resolve." Moriarty complimented as he pulled the blade from Sherlock's now bleeding chest and examined the fresh blood that stained the razor with a morbid curiosity. "But sooner or later you will break. Every man does."

"Not this time." Sherlock defied boldly as he watched the demented criminal mastermind pressed the razor against the lower left side of his ribcage and press down. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

"Ah, stubborn," Moriarty began to slowly drag the blade across Sherlock's lower chest just as he did with the first cut earlier. "arrogant," the razor cut easily into Sherlock's chest drawing blood with each millimeter of flesh cut. "brash," the blade cut away half way through his chest. "pompous", the razor created a brutal laceration that stretched from one side of Sherlock's ribcage clean to the other. "and proud." Moriarty pulled the blade away from Sherlock's chest and took a step back as if to admire his atrocious work. "But that's what I like about you. It's a trait we share."

Sherlock breathed hastily and shallowly as he fought back the urge to cry out in pain. "The only trait we share Moriarty is our looming deaths."

"You can't possible believe that you will escape from me, Holmes. The improbability is nearly incalculable."

"Once you've eliminated the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock quipped with a level voice. "And I stand by this belief until the very end, just as much as I believe in Watson."

"Your faith is misplaced." Moriarty snipped as he crudely swung the razor across Sherlock's right cheek below his eye drawing blood in a flash. "And I will show you exactly why."

* * *

Watson clutched at the collar of coat to stave off the cold from the continuous rain as he walked through the park and locating the exact position in which Sherlock had been abducted by one or more of Moriarty's men. The small area had been roped off by Inspector Lestrade and a single police officer was patrolling the area with great disinterest in his face.

Approaching the barricade Watson knelt down to examine the three distinct muddy footprints left by three men that would soon be washed away by the rain. As he stared down at the prints he mindlessly fumbled with Sherlock's tobacco tin between his fingers as he tried to imagine the struggle that had taken place hours ago.

"Holmes, where in the world did you go my dear fellow?" Watson tried to use the same science of deduction that Sherlock had so brilliantly mastered years prior but his mind wasn't obsessively sharp as Sherlock's.

Staring at the footprints Watson noted the direction in which the feet had first entered the park and then exited. There were two sets of footprints leading away from the park, but one set was noticeably deeper than when they first entered which meant the person was either stomping down as he walked or carrying a great additional weight upon his exit. The second set followed right beside the first indicating that two men were working together.

Following the steps Watson noted that the man and his accomplice had journeyed West but as soon as the men stepped across the street the trail came to an abrupt stop.

"I say," Watson returned to the park and addressed the patrolling police man. "has anyone checked that building where the footprints stop?"

"Aye, sir." The police man answered int he affirmative. "Inspector Lestrade had three teams scour the building from basement to roof. There's no sign of Mr. Holmes."

"Strange..." Watson commented out loud. "The footprints don't lead anywhere else."

"Aye, that's what has us baffled, sir."

Shaking his head Watson followed the footprints back to where the struggle began. It was clear from the pacing between the steps that the two men who had left the park together had also entered together. The two men had also jumped the third man, who was undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes. Backtracking further, stepping away from the scene of the struggle Watson noticed a curious abnormality in the mud.

"What's this?" Watson knelt down as he noticed a small rectangular impression in the mud that perfectly fit the shape of Sherlock's tobacco tin. "Curious." Watson placed the tin down in the mud and confirmed his suspicions. "This is where Sherlock dropped his tin. But, what a moment..." Turning his head to look over to the scene of the struggle a four yards away the distance between the two places struck Watson as very odd. "If Sherlock had dropped his tin during the fight then it should have been over there, not here. It's too far for it have been knocked away or thrown."

Retrieving the tin from the mud and standing upright Watson open the tin and examined the contents within. Just as Lestrade stated there was a small snuff of tobacco and two cigarettes inside. While the tobacco was correctly in place the two cigarettes were very unusual.

"Holmes only smokes his pipe." Watson noted sharply as he picked up the two rolled cigarettes and held them between his fingers. "Only when offered does he partake in cigarettes, he never buys them for himself."

Playing on a hunch Watson carefully unfurled the paper exterior of the cigarette and discovered that the contents within was not any form of tobacco but a type of dense clay.

"What that devil?"

As the rain continued to fall Watson realized that the weather could destroy the contents inside the tin. Placing the unrolled cigarette back inside the tin he snapped the small box shut and pocketed it right away. Exiting the park Watson hailed the first hanson who came his way and instructed the cabbie to journey around the park until told to stop.

Inside the dry space of the hanson Watson pulled the tin from his pocket and studied the clay that was concealed inside the cigarette. Smudging a small bit of the clay between his fingers Watson recognized the gray hue as the same clay found along the riverbank in an isolated locale just outside of the city.

"Why in the world would Sherlock go to such great lengths to hide clay inside his tobacco tin?"

Picking up the second cigarette Watson unfurled the paper and once again was greeted by a lack of tobacco and discovered a second piece of paper rolled up inside. Smoothing open the roll of paper a Watson immediately recognized Sherlock's handwriting regarding the hidden message concealed within the cigarette.

" _My dear Watson_ ," the note began in perfectly neat cursive printed in black ink. " _I without a doubt know that it would be you to find my message. The clay I've collected is a sample taken from the shoe of a known assassin under Moriarty's employ. I've trace it back to a residence registered under a false name; an alias used by Moriarty himself. Bring Scotland Yard to the address contained within this message posthaste. - Sherlock Holmes_."

"Holmes! By Jove, you've-" Pounding on the roof of the hanson with a tight fist Watson called out to the cabbie. "take me to Scotland Yard! Do it now!"

* * *

Sherlock coughed violently as the thunderous blow to his ribs resonated through his bloodied chest with a tremendous impact. As he fought to catch his breath Moriarty just chuckled as he wiped the blood from his reddened and swelling knuckles on a white handkerchief that quickly stained red like Sherlock's tattered shirt.

A puddle of blood had formed beneath Sherlock courtesy of the dozens of deep lacerations created by Moriarty's hand and his razor. The fabric of Sherlock's shirt was saturated in blood and hung from his shoulders and arms like torn rags. Deep purple bruises marred his chest and his abdomen where Moriarty had struck him mercilessly with his bare fists.

"I must admit Holmes, I'm impressed." Moriarty smiled wickedly as he inspected his prisoner like an artist over his latest creation. Spatters of red blood stained Moriarty's white shirt like paint upon a canvas. "You've lingered on much longer than any of my previous foes. I suppose you've earned some praise."

Sherlock spat some blood from his mouth as he breathed as deeply as he dared. A burning pain and tightness in his chest made the observant detective wary of broken ribs and internal bleeding. Gritting his teeth in silent pain a sheen of red coated over the white and created a gruesome image that matched his swollen, bleeding jaw.

"Stubborn as ever." Moriarty remarked as put his hand under Sherlock's chin and tilted his head downward to look him in the eye. "Fear not. Your suffering will soon be over."

"...and yours is just beginning, Moriarty." Sherlock huffed as he blinked slowly. His gray iris was glazed over and unfocused as he stared through Moriarty and to the closed door behind him. "I can promise you that."

"Oh? And how is that?" Moriarty questioned as forcefully pushed Sherlock's face away from his own. "You are imprisoned here with me, alone. My men have completely erased their trail by using the rain to wash away the mud. And Scotland Yard would never bother to look beyond the city. To what suffering and misery could you possible see befall my future?"

"You've underestimated my resources and more importantly," Sherlock managed to force a weak smile to his face. "you've underestimated Dr. Watson."

"That fool?" Moriarty again chuckled at the very idea of anyone, especially Dr. Watson, gaining the upper hand. "Please Holmes, don't make me laugh." Flashing the bloody razor with a demented glee Moriarty placed the tip of the sharp weapon near the center of Sherlock's chest, directly over his thundering heart. "I insist that you choose your next words very carefully, for they shall be your last."

"Then let my last words be thus:" Sherlock winced inwardly as the tip of the blade pierced his skin and pressed dangerously close to his heart. "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done." Strength left Sherlock's body and his eye shut heavily as his battered body went limp, hanging heavily from the obstructive chains that bound him to the ceiling.

"Well spoke." Moriarty complimented as he pressed the razor down with intent and purpose ever closer to Sherlock's heart. "Goodbye my friend. You were indeed a worthy adversary."

As Moriarty sneered with a vile glee the door to the room burst open with a crashing force as Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade, along with three additional police officers, rushed into the room with their pistols drawn and aimed.

Moriarty jumped in surprise and turned to face the intruders who had interrupted his moment of triumph.

"Drop the razor!" Lestrade ordered as he aimed his pistol squarely in the center of Moriarty's chest. "James Moriarty, you are under arrest for the abduction and attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes!"

"Holmes!" Watson eyed his bleeding friend with a righteous fear in his eyes. As much as he needed to rush to his friend's side he kept his ground knowing that one false move could give Moriarty an unjustified means of escape or backlash.

Thwarted by Scotland Yard and without any alternative Moriarty glowered with abject frustration as he raised his hands into the air to surrender while simultaneously dropping the bloodied razor to the floor.

"We've already captured your men, don't even try to escape! Cuff him." Lestrade ordered the other two officers as he kept his pistol trained on Moriarty. "And fetch a hanson. We have a wounded man here."

The two officers worked in tandem to cuff the captured Professor and lead him out of the room. Lestrade kept his pistol aimed while Watson ran over to Sherlock and pressed his fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck.

"Lestrade," Watson addressed the inspector without taking his eyes from Sherlock's bloody face. "help me get him down. The release for the chains should be over there, on the wall."

Watson slipped his hands along Sherlock's chest and abdomen to check for injuries and grimaced as he felt the swelling over Sherlock's ribs. Positioning his hands carefully at Sherlock's sides he supported his friend's deadweight and awaited the chains to go slack. As Sherlock was steadily lowered to the ground Watson put his arm under Sherlock's legs and lifted his unconscious friend into his arms.

"His wrists." Watson observed as he held his friend tightly in his arms.

"Right." Lestrade unfastened the metal binding that shackled around Sherlock's wrists. Freed of the chains Lestrade aided Watson in carrying Sherlock out of the room, down the corridor and out of the lavish estate that had become Moriarty's stronghold. "What can I do to help, doctor?"

"Fetch a hanson as soon as possible." Watson stated as the duo stepped outside and into the rain. "I will tend to his injuries on Baker Street."

"Shouldn't he be in the hospital?"

"Holmes absolutely disdains hospitals." Watson commented as he knelt down on the front lawn and let Sherlock's head, neck and shoulders rest against his leg. "Besides, there is no care that a hospital could provide that I could not."

"Alright doctor," Lestrade backed down and didn't try to argue with Watson or question Sherlock's wishes. "I trust you."

"Holmes?" Watson lightly pressed his fingers to the side of Sherlock's face to examine his swollen eye before checking the cut beneath the opposite eye. The swelling around his jawline was indicative of a painful but stable fracture. "Holmes, can you hear me?"

The cold rain fell from the sky and began to steadily wash away the dried blood on Sherlock's forehead, his face and his chest. Sherlock's hands twitched slightly at the sound of Watson's voice and of the cold rain splashing on his body.

"...Watson?"

"Yes. I'm here."

Sherlock forced a painful smile to his face. "Always good to see you, Watson."

"Don't worry, I'll get you bandaged up as soon as we're back on Baker Street. I promise."

"I knew you'd find me." Sherlock stated with a groggy smile as his head lolled to the side and fell unconscious once more. "Thank you. You saved my life."

"Holmes..." Watson rested his hand gently on Sherlock's chest. The sound of frantic hooves racing down the dirt path leading to the estate caught Watson's ear and relief fell over him. "Just rest. I'll take care of you."

* * *

It was an awkward assent but Watson and Lestrade managed to carry Sherlock into the flat, up to the second floor and into his private room to receive proper medical treatment. While Sherlock's wounds had stopped bleeding they were still in desperate need of attention and would have to be properly cleaned in order for the wounds to heal without any infection or complication.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Watson stated dispassionately. "I can take it from here."

"Right. I'll go make sure Moriarty is locked up for the rest of his days."

Watson didn't acknowledge the comment as he pushed past Lestrade to get through the doorway and retrieve his medical bag from his neighboring room.

Feeling out of place Lestrade discreetly excused himself from the company of the iconic duo and returned to Scotland Yard to do just as he promised.

Sherlock lifted his head slightly up from the pillow and glanced about the familiar setting of his own room just as Watson returned. The good doctor sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and placed the bag down next to Sherlock's legs. Carefully Watson pulled open the torn fabric of Sherlock's shirt to examine the dozen or so cuts that marred the detective's chest.

"That fiend..." Watson growled under his breath as he opened his bag and pulled out a bottle of alcohol. Dipping the alcohol onto a clean cloth he tentatively wiped away the excess blood from around the lacerations before tending to the cuts themselves.

Sherlock's breath hitched as the stinging pain from the alcohol roused him completely into consciousness.

"Lay still." Watson commanded as he focused on the wounds beneath his hands. "This will be uncomfortable but it's a necessary evil."

"I understand." Sherlock lamented as he prepared to endure further pain. Eyeing the bag he contemplated the notion of asking for a dose of morphine but knew Watson wouldn't oblige now that he was clean and sober. Swallowing once he closed his eyes and tried to keep his mind preoccupied to distract himself from the pain. "Watson, you found me. How?"

"Your tobacco tin." Watson replied firmly as he pulled a small kit from his bag containing a sterilized needle and silk thread. "You left it for me to find."

"Yes. The contents within." Sherlock specified as he tried to ignore the cold sensation of the needle piercing his already tender skin. "What were your..." He took in a hissing breath between his teeth as the first of the numerous stitches were placed in his skin. "deductions?"

"Aside from the note explicitly stating the address of which you were captive," Watson's voice was cold and analytical. "you never purchase cigarettes and had smoked the last that has been provided by a previous client weeks ago."

"Excellent." Sherlock praised as he endured the pain without flinching beneath Watson's hands. "What else?"

"The tin was dropped before the struggle even began." Watson explained calmly. "You knew you'd be taken."

"Yes. Moriarty had completely destroyed any and all evidence that could incarcerate him for his financial crimes, which meant we'd never be able to arrest him. But if we were to catch him in the act, red-handed and without an alibi..."

"So you set yourself up as bait?" Watson frowned at the revelation and stopped mid stitch as he gave his friend an disapproving stare. "That was dangerous and completely foolish! What if I-"

"But you did." Sherlock replied with a sincere smile on his swollen face. "And I never doubted you for an instant."

"Glad one of us didn't." Watson muttered under his breath as he resumed placing the rest of the stitches. "You will need to rest. I'll get you some cold water to press against your jaw and ice."

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Will you stay with me until morning?"

"Of course." Watson confirmed as he painstakingly stitched close every single cut upon Sherlock's being. "I'll stay for as long as you need me."

* * *

Four days had passed uneventfully and slowly since Sherlock's kidnapping by Moriarty and subsequent rescue by Watson. The restless detective paced about the rooms of Baker Street with his pipe clenched tightly between his teeth, his face still bruised and swollen courtesy of Moriarty's beating.

The bothersome rainstorms had finally ceased but the sun had yet to shine over the city.

Covered in his red dressing gown Sherlock rubbed his hand against his bandaged ribs. Every breath he took was painful but it wasn't unbearable. His left shoulder was completely wrapped in gauze and secured in a sling as the chains had partially dislocated the shoulder during his captivity. Stitches closed the wounds to his face, his chest and abdomen; each one a lingering reminder of Moriarty's razor and his rage.

"Holmes." Watson nearly scolded as he walked into the room and spotted his injured friend walking about despite his orders. "You need to be resting; after all you lost a considerable amount of blood and had been exposed to that painfully cold rain for a time. You'll do yourself no favors by walking about. Come, sit down. Play your violin if you must."

"So sorry my friend," Holmes sincerely apologized as he paused mid stride to look at his worried colleague. "but I've grown bored residing to myself in the flat."

"I understand your frustration, but you're still healing. Once you've recovered we'll stalk the streets in search of London's most dangerous criminals. I promise."

"We're already stalked London's most dangerous criminal. And now he is behind bars." Taking the pipe from between his teeth he glanced through the window overlooking the streets and stared at the dozens of unfamiliar faces walking about unaware of the detective observing from above. "But now the question remains; who will take Moriarty's place? And when?"

**_-The End_ **


End file.
